Murder at the Diogenes club
by Cordiers-Smith
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson happen upon a terrible crime while visiting Holmes' brother Mycroft, Holmes takes it upon himself to solve the case.
1. Chapter one

By Cordiers Smith and Fae Yamito

Murder at the Diogenes club.

Chapter one.

Part One: Being a reprint from the reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D., late of the Army Medical Department.

"As I look back upon all the cases that I have been fortunate enough of which to partake in with Holmes, few strike me as stranger than the case of the Diogenes club. It began on a foggy November evening when Holmes, Mycroft and I, were sitting in the library of the Diogenes club, it had been a trying week, Holmes had had a difficult case on his hands, one where which I could not accompany him on, which made it all the more frustrating to Holmes.

While we were taking our respite in the quiet confines of the club library, a most incongruous sound reached our ears; the sound itself was a horror to the other members, for on strict policy; no voice was to be raised above a whisper. The cry of terror echoed throughout the halls, Holmes and I immediately jumped up. "My god Holmes!" I cried, "That was the scream of a woman if I've ever heard one." Mycroft rose to his feet. "Let us make haste; I fear that was a scream of murder."

Holmes had already started sprinting down the long marble hallway, Mycroft and I were close at his heals.

At the end of the hallway Holmes made an abrupt left turn and then suddenly stopped, Mycroft and I skidded to a halt where Holmes' paused, I drew my eyes along a well furbished study until the sight which had procured screams came to me eyes.

There sitting in a slated chair at a desk turned sideways sat a youngish man with a bowler hat and short black hair, his eyes were rolled off in the direction of the window and a large butchers knife was protruding from his back, directly in front of Holmes stood a petrified maid, the tray she was carrying clattered to the floor, I rushed forward and grabbed the poor lady by the forearm and gently led her into the hall. By this time the other members of the club had gathered around in a semi-circle.

"Back!" Holmes cried, "I must have space, Mycroft, Watson, if you would."

One of the club members spoke in a barely audible whisper "Perhaps one of us should call for the police?"

Holmes snorted derisively. "You may do as see fit, but pray, wait a few moments before summoning them, I'd like a few minutes to purvey the scene before the regulars are tramping everywhere."

Mycroft and I leaned in for a closer look; Holmes had whipped out his magnifying glass and tape measure and was furiously measuring. "Watson, would you please examine the body, and be ever so careful where you step."

I stepped nimbly over the pool of blood that had gathered at the victim's feet and examined the knife that was piercing his back, the knife had entered directly into the midsection of his back and severed his spine, someone had to have been fairly muscular to attempt that, I leaned forward to further examine him, his neck was broken, probably from the severe seizure induced by the shattering of his spine. On closer inspection I noticed a long bruise mark running about his neck, I placed my fingers upon his neck in an effort to comprehend the brutality of the contusion; a shudder ran through my index finger followed by a slight pulsing beat.

"By Jove Holmes! The man is still alive!"  
Holmes sprang to his feet with the agility of a Burmese tiger, he relocated himself to my position, and my cry had caught the interest of the club members still present. "He's fading quickly," replied Holmes, "he'll not live long."

Holmes gently took the man's chin in his hand; he stared deeply into his eyes. "Sir, if you can hear me; blink."

The man closed his eyes, and for a moment I thought he had passed, but then they slowly reopened. "Sir!" Holmes exclaimed, "Who has done this to you?"

The man drew in a long rasping breath; I knew that with his windpipe shattered no air was reaching his lungs.

"Glor...Gloria..." The man wheezed, and his eyes drifted to the far corner of the room.

"He's gone," I piped up.

Holmes nodded and then turned to the crowd. "You may call for the police now; I've examined the crime fully."

Holmes backed away from the scene, Mycroft and I followed him. "Come," he said, "Let us go to the library, the constable will be here shortly, and I'm sure he'll have many a question for us."

I followed Holmes in a daze, I had seen things far worse in the Afghan Campaign, but there was something so primitive and brutally horrifying about this murder.

As we entered the library Mycroft plopped down into a reclining chair, Holmes took a seat on the sofa and I pulled a straight-backed from the nearby table.

"So, what are the facts of the case?" I inquired, "What do we know so far, other than the fact that a woman named Gloria killed the man."

"Tsk, tsk, Watson, I should think better of you than that," replied Holmes, "do you really mean to tell me that a lady drove an eight inch blade through the spine of a young, muscular man? Besides, the only footprints that I found in the room belonged to a man."

I considered Holmes' point for a moment, he was of course right, there was no way a woman, unless of great proportions, could have driven that knife through solid bone, most men couldn't even do that! "But what of the reference to 'Gloria'?"

"Only time will tell Watson, if I were a betting man I should say that the afore mentioned is his sweetheart, or wife. But you know better than that Watson, I do not theorize until I have the facts."

"Did you note the length of the perpetrator's stride?" Mycroft asked calmly.

"I did indeed," replied Holmes, "The prints belonged to a ten inch brown leather loafer,

I measured the length and have come to the conclusion that the villain is approximately five foot eleven and weighs one hundred and seventy pounds; he has brown hair, pale skin and uses woman's makeup to cover an allergic reaction on his left cheek, oh and he limps slightly on his left leg."

"How on earth did you figure that Holmes?" I demanded.

Holmes chuckled. "Elementary Watson, the height and weight are easily determined by the length and impression of his stride, on closer examination with my lens, I found short fibers of dark brown hair as well as flakes of pale skin."

"And the makeup covering the allergic reaction?" I queried.

"Small grains of it were found on the man's bowler I should imagine," stated Mycroft, "Although I was not close enough to discern properly."

"Exactly correct my brother," replied Holmes, "as far as I can tell, the makeup rubbed off as he reached down to wrap his arm around the sitting man's neck, also, mixed in with the makeup I found small flakes of a deep red skin, indicating irritation."

"It's all so marvelous," I exclaimed.

Holmes laughed quietly. "No, merely unusual, but come, if I'm not mistaken that is the voice of the good inspector I hear, who else would violate the sacred rule of this club."

Holmes and I left Mycroft in the lounge; "I'd be no more use to you than one of those policemen," he had said, "plus, I fear that all this activity has worn me down."

But before we could get out of the library we were approached by a sallow eyed plain-clothes inspector with a rat like face.

"Ah Lestrade," sighed Holmes, "I see from the papers that you've finished your murder case."

"Quite, it's a good thing we got the bloke into cuffs, who knows when he would strike again."

Holmes yawned. "Oh indeed, have you inspected the body?"

"First thing I did, the victim is one..." "Ian Hartford," Interrupted Holmes.

Lestrade looked a little flustered. "Ah...yes, that's right, I suppose you saw the calling card in his pocket."

"I did, that is how I formed my conclusion."

"Right...well, do you have any light you could shed on the subject, I'm afraid thus far I'm at a bit of a loss. I have however taken the liberty of making sure all the members of the club remain present, as they are all suspects."

"How very wise of you Inspector," replied Holmes sardonically, "I should have never thought of that myself. By the way, what have you done with the maid that discovered the crime scene?"

"I questioned her and then let her go home."

"And what did you learn?

"She discovered the body while bringing the victim his supper, she was quite upset and immediately gave her resignation to the club owner, I sent her home in a cab."

Holmes rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Did she give you her address?"

Lestrade thought for a moment. "No, is there some reason you wanted it."

Holmes sighed. "Oh my no Lestrade, I merely like to be complete in my work. Come Watson, we must go. Oh inspector, there's no need to examine the corpse for sign of the aggressor, your looking for a man, five foot eleven, one-hundred seventy pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, and a patch of makeup on his left cheek, also, he limps with his left leg."

Holmes stepped past the awestruck inspector and followed Watson out of the elegant club. "Well Watson, shall we share a cab? I have much work to do so I don't suppose I shall be returning to Baker Street."

"By all means Holmes," I replied, "You know how much I enjoy watching you work."

As Holmes and I mounted the steps of the hansom the clock tower struck eleven, we entered the darkened vehicle and dropped ourselves onto the crimson benches.

"So," said I, "What now? What are our leads?"

Holmes sat silently for a moment. The cabman leaned back to the port and hollered out, "Where to gov'ner?"

"Seven Twenty-One North Winchester Street," said Holmes, "And a silver schilling if you make it in half the time."

"Why whatever for?" I demanded.

"Because Watson, we're going to pay a visit to one Mrs. Gloria Colepepper, ladies assistant and unless you'd rather walk halfway across London, then we had better take the cab."


	2. Chapter two

Chapter two.

As the city streets passed by in a whirling flash, Holmes and I discussed the peculiarities of the case. "However did you find out where this 'Mrs. Colepepper' lives?" I asked, "However did you even know that 'Gloria's' last name was Colepepper? However did you even know she was married!?"

"Calm yourself Watson," pressured Holmes, "and don't trouble yourself, it wasn't some extreme act of deduction, I barely had to lift a finger."

"But how!" I cried.

"There was a card attached to the index of Mr. Hartford's coat, it not only had Gloria Colepepper's name on it but, her address as well."

"Then why did you not say so earlier in front of Mycroft, or later in front of Lestrade?"

"Mycroft saw the paper, and I had no inclination to believe that you hadn't."

"But what about Lestrade?" I challenged.

"Lestrade's a smart fellow," answered Holmes with a twinkle in his eye, "It shouldn't be to hard for him to find the card where I left it."

"Holmes, I'm shocked!" Said I, "tampering with evidence just doesn't seem like a thing you would do!"

"Oh posh Watson, what the deuce is it to you, if I solve the case, which I have every intention of doing, what does it matter if Lestrade has one extra lead? A well rounded problem is good for the mind every now and then, I know that I find it most invigorating."

"Sorry to bother you Gov'ner," the cabman broke in, "but we're at the location, and just as I promised we've done it in half the time."

Holmes and I stepped out of the carriage; my friend drew some silver out of his pocket and handed it to the driver. "There's your schilling, and there's three more, get something fine for your wife, the washing job is very hard on her, and she's considering a change in scenery if read my meaning."

Holmes and I tramped off through the thick fog, leaving an incredulous cab driver behind.

We approached the address of our destination and a pleasant sight greeted our eyes, rising up from the walk was a congenial looked house with graceful arches and large windows. Holmes stepped up to the walk and gave the bell a good long ring, it was only seconds later that I realized that it was late, almost midnight, most respectable people would be in bed...Other than Holmes and I of course.

Holmes yanked at the bell again and then hammered loudly at the door.

A ladies maid opened the door just enough to peek her head out. "May I help you sirs?"

Holmes smiled. "You may indeed; we'd like to speak with your mistress, Mrs. Colepepper."

The maid paused at the doorway; clearly she was reluctant to let two strange men into her house in the middle of the night. "Ma'am isn't home right now; can I leave her a message?"

"Oh tut woman, there's no need to lie, we're not burglars, now go wake your lady."

The maid was slightly taken aback at this and hesitated briefly.

"Get to it woman! We haven't got all night!" Holmes commanded.

The maid scuttled off to wake her employer, I turned to Holmes. "There was no need to be short with her Holmes; she was only doing what she thought well."

Holmes sighed. "And I only did what I thought was right."

I looked Holmes straight in the eye. "You're the most emotionless person I know Holmes!"

"Why thank-you Watson," Holmes replied, "in my line of work I take that as a complement, but quietly now, those are the footsteps of a cultured lady I hear approaching."

As the footsteps grew louder, I craned my head to get a better view of this Mrs. Colepepper. Inclining my head to the left I peered through the slightly opened door and caught sight of our quarry. Gloria Colepepper was a young woman; I should expect that she was no older than twenty-seven, with long brown hair, rosy skin and the deepest most innocent, brown eyes I had ever seen. The long black coat she was wearing could not cover the stately grace with which her silken nightgown flowed about her, the tiny velvet slippers she was wearing clicked softly against the marble hall.

"May I help you gentlemen?" Her voice was a smooth as silk.

"You may indeed madam," replied Holmes, "we're here to speak to you about your relationship with Mr. Ian Hartford."

The lady pursed her lips; her skin grew a shade paler.

"I know no one by that name."

"Oh come now woman, I'm not that naïve."

"As I said before Sir, I do not know a Mr. Ian Hartford," The woman said awkwardly.

"Ian Hartford is dead Ma'am."

The good lady reeled backwards in shock, her eyelids fluttered and she leaned against the doorjamb for support.

Holmes grabbed her by the wrist and propelled her towards a handsome couch.

I called for the maid and salts were soon procured, Holmes sat upon the arm of the couch and held the salts under her nose for a few seconds, her eyes opened wide, she sat up shakily. Immediately her sobs punctuated the air.

Holmes took a seat next to me and patiently waited, I tried to calm the woman, but it was to no avail.

After a few emotional moments, Mrs. Colepepper lifted her worn head. "How did he die?"

"He was murdered."

Mrs. Colepepper nodded, "I had feared as much."

I felt for this woman; clearly Ian Hartford was close to her.

"Now," said Holmes, "please explain your relationship with Mr. Hartford."

She stared blankly at Holmes for a moment. "It is very hard to explain..."

Holmes nodded. "You must try your best madam."

"Very well, It started long ago, when I was a young lady, Ian and I had been friends since childhood and we were desperately in love with each other, we were planning to get married," she scowled, "but my father had other devices for me, he demanded I wed the man of his choice, no coincidence that he was a rich young lord."

"No doubt you mean Sir Edward Colepepper?" Holmes asked.  
The lady blinked back tears and nodded. "Yes Edward is my husband, but I love him not, nor could I ever, even now that Ian is dead. I had been seeing Ian, we were planning to run away together to Europe, at first Ian told me it was a fool idea, he said that he could never support me, but I convinced him. I told him that I didn't care what happened, as long as we were together it was enough."

Holmes eyelids fluttered. "I see a pattern here; you know who the murderer is do you not?"

The lady swallowed deeply, she bit her pale lips. "There is only one person who could have done this."

"Sir Edward Colepepper," Holmes replied

Mrs. Colepepper closed her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Yes; as you may know, Edward is a famous actor, he has the uncanny ability to play the character of his roll so well, that it seems his own character. I'm very much afraid he used this feat to kill poor Ian."

"The club maid!" I cried.

"Yes," Holmes agreed, "I had suspected something of the sort when I read the card and found the makeup, this merely approves my theory."

"But Lestrade let her go!"

"Not to worry Watson, we shall find him."

"What will happen to him?" asked the lady.

"That is for the courts to decide; as for us, we must take our leave, I advise you to return to your father's house, you may be called upon as a witness when we wrap this web up."

"Farewell to you sirs, I pray you find Edward before something even more terrible happens."

We walked briskly out of the noble lady's presence; the home which at first had seemed so cheery was but a pale ghost of what it had been, or so it seemed, thirty such heartrending minutes made even the best of places look miserable.

Holmes hailed a passing cab; the driver stood the horse too. Holmes opened the door. "Get in Watson." "Where are we going Holmes?" I inquired.

"'We' are going no where, you are returning to Baker, I'm afraid that you'll not be able to help me on this next venture."  
"Doing some late night snooping?"

"Indeed I am Watson, and I think you'd find the establishments I chose to sojourn at are quite below your station."


	3. Chapter three

Chapter three

I awoke the next morning thoroughly refreshed of mind and body, the clocks read ten; late, but that was alright, I had nothing to do the next few days, all my affairs were in order and the clinic certainly didn't need me every day. The Baker rooms looked bright and clean, clearly an effect of my mindset as the rooms were almost always in a state of utter disarray.

I rose to my feet, stretched my limbs and proceeded to call up Mrs. Hudson.

As the landlady busied herself with my breakfast I headed into the study for some sign of Holmes.

There sitting on the small inn table sat a small piece of note paper, even from where I was I could make out Holmes' distinctive flourish.

_My Dear Watson,_

_I had a very busy night and there's a very busy day ahead of me._

_Do, try and stay awake, I suspect I won't be back until late this evening, but I have ever so much to tell you._

_I'm close Watson, oh so close, but this man is like the devil himself._

_Holmes._

I folded the paper carefully and set it back on the table, Mrs. Hudson came up carrying a silver tray, the agreeable scent of fried eggs on toast rose to meet my nose.

Mrs. Hudson set down the tray, bid' me good morning and left me to eat my meal in peace, muttering something about strange habits and late breakfasts.

As I sat in the cushioned lounge chair, munching on my toast, I took it upon myself to apply Holmes' methods to this curious piece of paper he had left me.

I wiped my hands on my trousers and picked up the foolscap as carefully as possible, my vision blurred as I attempted to scrutinize every detail of the paper, was it new? Certainly not, for it had not the feel or smell of brand new paper.

Was it Holmes' usual note paper? I turned the letter over and around and held it up to the light, in an effort to determine a watermark; it was sometime before I found it, faded and gray, sitting quite unnoticeably in the bottom left hand corner.

The paper was made by Barrett and Co. Holmes' paper; he was most religious in his use of it.

I brought the note up to my nose and took a long whiff. It smelled strongly of alcohol and tobacco smoke, not the fine tobacco of rich merchants, but the grimy mixed tobacco of the poorer class.

I peaked over at the clock, it was now one, and I had spent the better part of three hours attempting to discover all I could about this simple piece of paper.

Clearly it was Holmes' writing, for I knew it well. It was a kind of paper he often used, and the note had been composed in some sort of drinking establishment, a pub of one kind or another.

But other than that it had been a fruitless search, I learned nothing about Holmes' whereabouts other than that he had been in a pub, and I learned nothing about the location of our quarry, other than the fact that Holmes was close on his tail.

I spent the rest of the day in quiet solitude, basking in the tranquility of the moment, and yet suffering in my eagerness to know what had transpired when Holmes had sent me home in the hansom.

Holmes blustered into the room later that evening, delight playing across his face. "I've found him Watson, it was a long, hard chase, but I've found him!"

I sprang to my feet, dropping the newspaper I had been reading. "Wonderful news, how'd you go about it?"

Holmes slumped into the easy chair, a sigh of satisfaction escaping his lips. "Elementary my dear Watson, I simply had to do some footwork," Holmes removed his muddied shoes and gently rubbed his feet, "A good deal of footwork I should say." He chortled, "Edward Colepepper had me tramping all over London."

"Quite the devilish fellow, ehh Holmes?" I asked.

"Indeed he was Watson, I always seemed to be moments behind him. The second after I sent you off in that cab I lost no time in procuring my own and directing it to Diogenes. To my pleasant surprise Lestrade had indeed found the card I 'mislaid'. I relayed to him the information concerning our little interview, he took my word on it and immediately sent his regulars tramping off into the mist." Holmes smacked his lips, "I say Watson, would you rustle me up some coffee; I haven't had anything to drink since last night at the club."

I handed Holmes my untouched cup, sitting upon the table. He greedily swallowed the black contents. Placing the cup back on the table with a sigh of relief, Holmes continued his narrative.

"As I was saying. On returning to the club I immediately ferreted out the owner and demanded the address of his recently hired maid. As I expected, the address was a fluke, leading me to a simple packaging warehouse. I must give young Colepepper credit, he always seemed to be one step ahead of me. After the debacle of the address I went to the theater which most commonly employs Sir Edward, the result was very satisfying. I met with a young lad, Mr. Cyril Thornberry; quite talented, likely to take Sir Edward's place. A most interesting individual, he was most helpful. He explained that Sir Edward had been nervous and sullen as of late. He explained to me that Sir Edward had rented a small apartment on the other side of town, he had rented it on the excuse that he needed some time away.

That was the obvious place for Sir Edward to go after committing his deeds, young Cyril even cited as much. After validating that Colepepper had retreated to his den, I summoned the Baker Street Brigade and put them on strict orders to watch the place until the police had arrived."

"And how did the capture of Sir Edward go?" I asked.

"I didn't bother with that, Lestrade promised to return here and tell us once he was apprehended. I thought you would like to hear the story."

I smiled. "I was indeed glad, but you should have stayed, there are an infinite amount of scenarios that could have taken place were you there."

"Posh Watson, you're too much of a romantic," he smiled wryly, "after all, I had to make the regulars feel wanted in some way. But hark, if I'm not mistaken that is the sound of the good inspector's footsteps upon the stair."  
  
Lestrade burst into the room huffing and puffing, sweat dripping down his flushed face. Holmes opened his arms wide. "Ah Lestrade, how went the ordeal. Watson and I were just discussing the many possible contingencies."

"Edward Colepepper..." the winded detective drew a long breath, "was found murdered."


End file.
